


It's Only a Diary

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-05
Updated: 2009-05-05
Packaged: 2019-11-21 18:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18145685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: She has to write in her diary sometime.  Just not now.





	It's Only a Diary

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this shot](http://bridgetarchive.altervista.org/_altervista_ht/teor_preview031.jpg). (The scene describes it, I think.)

Cast in amber lights from the candles she likes to set up around the flat, she sits there writing in her diary, intent as anything as the stream of ink makes its way across the printed page, her brows drawn slightly together in their concentration, her eyes following the loops and whorls of her words. He loves to look at her when she writes, using the guise of a journal she gave to him as a ruse to do so unhindered. He's gotten used to coming over in the evenings to share dinner with her then take her to bed, but there's that short period between the two during which she likes to write about her day. She doesn't want him to sit near her while she writes, and he understands her need for some privacy. He certainly doesn't mind giving her time to do so.

But he can't help watching her as she does.

Seeing her mostly in profile, he watches her expression change as she continues writing; the little frowns, the tiny dimple in her cheek as she half-smirks, the crinkling around her eyes, the way she pulls her lower lip gently between her teeth. Upon his arrival she'd insisted they get out of work clothes to relax, she in a tank and pyjama bottoms, he in a chenille brown robe and his trousers. As her camisole strap slips down her shoulder, she reflexively raises her thumb to restore it to its place without conscious thought. He's especially fond of the delicate manoeuver she employs to tuck her hair behind her ear, which she does repeatedly as her silky locks have a tendency to slip easily free again.

It's the end of the pen touching her lips, though, the metallic edge pressing into the pink fullness of her mouth, that causes him to set down the tome he's not looking at or writing in. He then turns and leans on the cushion between them, touches her foot, runs his hand up the skin of her calf. 

"Hey," she says, turning to him in surprise, as if she's just remembered he's there with her.

"Hey," he says in a gravelly voice, his eyes fixing on hers.

"I'm not finished," she retorts, though her lips are curled in her suppressed amusement.

"Yes you are," he informs her, scooting closer to her, brushing his fingers against her bare upper arm. He then raises his left hand, framing her face with it; curling his fingers around the back of her head he pulls her to him, covering her mouth with his. He hears her diary fall to floor, the rustle of paper folding in on itself, the pen skittering on the floor. He feels her soft fingers on his cheek, jaw, throat as his other hand brushes over her breast.

She laughs under her breath. "Mm," she says throatily, kissing him more heatedly. "Someone's feeling frisky."

"Can't help myself," he says, leaning closer from his place beside her, pressing his hand firmly into her; the feel of her hardened nipple against his palm sets his heart to racing with want for her.

She giggles again between renewed kisses; he moves both hands to her waist now and pushes that camisole tank up to bare her abdomen. She stops, sharply inhaling, then sighs.

"Say it," she orders softly, her voice hot on his cheek.

He pushes it higher, cups her bare breast with one hand, plays with the elastic of her bottoms with the other. "I like you," he breathes into her ear, "just as you are."

At this she purrs, twisting and arching into him; her hands go for the edges of the open robe, then dive beneath to skim her hands along his chest, around his waist, fingers dancing under the edge of the fabric, curving around from each hip to meet in the front. He takes her earlobe between his teeth, rolling his tongue on the flesh there.

"Remind me," she mutters, working open his belt, fumbling with the button and fly, "to get you a pair of proper pyjama bottoms."

"Hardly see the point," he replies, helping her to push trousers and boxers alike down over his arse, "when they end up on the floor regardless."

"Come off faster," she says. As if to demonstrate, she lifts her hips and easily shucks the beige plaid flannel, kicking them to the floor. His blood is nearing the boiling point now: she has no pants on beneath.

His hands are firm on her thighs as he pushes them apart. Her legs come up to either side of him as he pulls himself flush up against her, his firmness pressed on her thigh as he takes her mouth again; the height of the chaise arm is just about at the small of her back, so it doesn't offer much support, but it's enough.

"Just as you are," he whispers once more, right hand on her breast again, thumb playing with the nipple; left elbow braced on the sofa, arm around the back of her neck. She reaches to kiss him again but he evades her; he wants to see her face as his fingers play along her skin, the change in her expression as he moves his hands from her breast to her stomach to her hip to her thigh until they come ever nearer to reaching the heat between her legs.

He studies her intently, sees she's barely able to keep her desire-heavy lids from sinking. She whimpers as he moves his fingers slowly in peaks and spirals across the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, in its own way a sort of cursive; with every foray closer to her core she rocks her hips up into him. He doesn't touch her there yet though; he's far too fond of watching her like this, writhing under his ministrations, moaning under his flitting fingertips. As in everything she does, she's amazing and gorgeous without even being aware of it.

He's also convinced that, from the way her gyrations are affecting that firmness between them, the moment he joins with her he's going to come, so he's intent on making the most of things before he does.

"Jesus," she moans as he traces the pad of a finger on the crease between her legs. "You're killing— _ohhh_."

The non-verbal finish to her statement is a direct result of his fingers moving just that much farther inward, not quite entering her, but rather, playing along that tender edge.

"Just as you are," he says hotly into her ear, pressing his finger against that outer border, causing her to cry out, to throw her head back. Pulsing his finger, circling it upward, he repeats himself with a slight variation just as he reaches that nexus of nerves: "Just as you fucking are."

What he doesn't expect was that she would come right there and then with just the lightest touch against her; but from the way she bucks her hips up (causing little stars to dance behind his eyes), the way she hoarsely cries out again, the spasms he can feel even against the edge of his finger, he knows she must have.

As she settles into the sofa again, her head's tilted back, and he can see the pulse in her throat as she gasps for air. He leans into her to kiss her neck, to run his tongue and graze his teeth along her skin, then lifts up off of her just enough to thrust his very erect self into her.

She sucks in a great breath as he wraps his arms about her shoulders and starts to pound full force into her, just as he ravishes her mouth again. From the sound of that gasp it's almost like he's taken her by surprise, but by no means does she seem to mind, and in fact, she seems as enthusiastic as she has ever been, muttering under her breath, commanding him to do it harder, faster; faster, harder. Her legs lift and encircle him, heels digging in, hips tilting up into a more advantageous angle. He tangles his fingers into her hair and tugs back gently to lift her chin so that he might have better access to her throat again, to her jaw, to her ear, and with every drive forward he wants her more and more, wants to lose himself in her, wants to devour her lush beauty, her warmth and wetness—

He makes a guttural, strangled sound low in his throat, and with a final push he feels his release take over. It's magnificent and ethereal and he does in fact lose himself in her completely, especially when he feels her fingernails raking through his hair, feels her come again, feels her pull him into another kiss, this time languorous and overflowing with deep tenderness.

He swallows, wishing a glass of water was within reach, and he raises his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. He turns so that his weight isn't on her but more on the seat cushions on the rear half of the chaise, resting his head for a moment on the back. "Oh," he manages, which is hardly the eloquent statement of affection, adoration, or even love he feels for her. "Oh," he says again, opening his eyes.

She's looking up at him, a crooked smile on her lips. "Oh," she repeats; he's not sure if she's concurring in her opinion of what just occurred, teasing him for his lack of verbal skills, or if she's been rendered equally speechless. Whichever way it is, he doesn't care. He leans to give her another kiss, then turns to pull her onto him and holds her to him like he might never let go.

"Very, very good," she says in a papery voice after many moments in this fantastic afterglow.

He can still only manage a monosyllabic "Mmm" as she nestles into his neck, then finds himself lost in bliss.

In other words, he dozes off.

He awakes to the feel of her fingers combing through his hair. He looks up to her; she's looking quite smug as she rests there on his chest.

"Sorry," he said, sweeping his hand over her bare hip and bum.

"Oh, don't be," she says. 

"Sorry for interrupting your writing," he said, though really, he isn't.

She laughs. "Don't lie."

Still feeling the need to apologise, he takes another tack. "Sorry for the terrible state the pages of your diary is likely to be in."

She fights a smile. "As I've said before, Mark: it's only a diary." 

_The end._


End file.
